faixineira could keep her small apartment in order. The inside of her car looked like a teenager’s room. She couldn’t seem to find a new boyfriend and was flitting from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, trying to fig-ure out why her fiance of four years, another doctor, had aban-doned her for a medical secretary with wide hips and thick glasses.
“What’s a new shrink got to do with anything?”
“She’s got man trouble, too. I got her to talk about it.”
Gilda rolled her eyes at the breach of professionalism. “The halt leading the blind. Are you helping each other?”
“Too early to tell.” Sylvie settled back in her chair and studied Gilda’s face. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” Gilda said, and buried her nose in the menu.
“Oh, come on. You can’t honestly be in a tiff just because I’m a few minutes late.”
“It’s not that.”
“But it’s something. Man trouble?”
Sylvie was also big on projecting. If she had a problem, she was prone to believe that others had the same problem.
“I wish,” Gilda said. “My boss is sixty-five if he’s a day, happily married with grandchildren. The only young bache-lor in the medical examiner’s office is gay, and my patients are all dead.”
Sylvie didn’t bother to grin. She’d heard the crack about dead patients before.
“Prospects?” she said.
“Maybe one,” Gilda admitted.
Sylvie wriggled in her seat. “Tell,” she said.
“He’s a federal cop, and he’s cute.”
“A federal cop?”
“Not just a cop. A delegado. You have to be a lawyer to be a delegado.”
“Yeah. I know. But Gilda, a
“You think I should hold out for another doctor?”
“Touche. You have a picture?”
“Not yet.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“I’ll get to that later. And Sylvie. .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you shooting your mouth off about this. It’s in the early stages yet.”
“Your secrets are safe with me, querida. I don’t even know any cops. Yet.”
“Alright then. I’ll trust your discretion. How’s it going with you?”
“In the man department?”
Gilda nodded.
“The usual,” Sylvie said.
“A complete disaster?”
“I work with an anesthesiologist who’s interested, but he’s a creep. I met a guy at a party who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I thought he was a legitimate target, but then his namora-da showed up and dragged him off to her lair. My boss is unmar-ried, but he’s even older than yours, and for all the attention he pays to women, he must have shelved his sexuality. Sometimes I think I should have dropped all the medical-school crap and become a secretary. Secretaries find men and get married.”
“So do doctors.”
“Yeah, but most of them marry nurses. Can you see me with a male nurse?”
“Frankly? No.”
“Me neither.” Sylvie picked up the menu and perused it. “What are you going to have?”
“While I was waiting for you, I had a long talk with the waiter. About half an hour’s worth. I know his life story.”
“Married?”
“Yes. Happily.”
“And your point?”
“He said the snapper in lemon butter is good.”
Actually the conversation with the waiter had taken all of thirty seconds, Gilda had no idea whether he was married or not, and he hadn’t said a word about the snapper in lemon butter. It was just that the snapper was the cheapest thing on the menu. The waiter had nodded in a superior fashion when she’d asked him if he could recommend it. Compared to what Sylvie earned, Gilda’s salary was paltry, and she was still reeling in shock over the prices on the menu.
“And it’s your turn to pay, right?” Sylvie said, as if she could read Gilda’s thoughts.
Gilda nodded.
Sylvie perused her menu, then looked Gilda straight in the eye and said, “I’m going to have lobster Thermidor and a split of Cordon Rouge.”
“Sylvie-”
“On the other hand, I might have the snapper, but only if you come clean and you do it right now. What’s bugging you?”
Gilda rested her forearms on the white damask and leaned forward.
“Let’s order and I’ll tell you.”
Sylvie snapped her menu shut.
“Snapper it is, then,” she said, “but you’ve got to promise you’ll brief me on the cop before I leave this table.”
Gilda raised her hand and crossed her fingers as children do when they’re making solemn promises.
The waiter thought she was signaling him, and promptly came to the table. They ordered the snapper and compro-mised on a bottle of Chilean white.
When he was gone, Sylvie gestured with her hands, as if she were presenting the place.
“Well?” she said with a proprietary air.
“Very nice, but expensive.”
“Worth every centavo. You’re going to love it.”
Gilda wasn’t sure about that. Even the snapper in lemon butter was a strain on her budget. The waiter came back with the wine and let Gilda taste it. She nodded. He half-filled each of their glasses and went away again.
“So out with it,” Sylvie prompted. “You pregnant? Been fired? Have a particularly bad morning cutting up one of your patients?”
“None of that,” Gilda said.
“Then what?”
“I want you to tell me how you source human hearts.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Silvie had been leaning forward, resting her chin on the heel of one hand. She put her hand on the table and sat up straight in her chair.
“What?”
“Hearts. Hearts from people recently dead. The ones you use for transplants. Where do you source them from?”
Sylvie frowned. “From donors, of course. Why?”
“I’m paying. I get to ask my questions first. Where else do you get hearts from?”
“Nowhere else. That’s it. Donors.”
“And these. . donors? They make that decision, to
